


(Don't) Open Your Legs

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: (Don't) Open Your Eyes (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, F/M, Fantasy, Fingering, Longing, Monster - Freeform, One-Sided Relationship, Paralysis, Sensory Deprivation, Sensory Overload, Sleep Paralysis, Somnophilia, Teratophilia, Vaginal Fingering, stimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: You give the creature hands. You give him a smile with teeth. You give him the quiet permission to do as he wants with your gifts and do so, he does.A/N: For the several anonymous asks I got for this game on Tumblr. Please heed tags for warning. Thanks! And enjoy! <3
Relationships: The Creature/Original Female Character(s), The Creature/Reader
Comments: 27
Kudos: 377





	(Don't) Open Your Legs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



There’s a sensory upheaval when you close your eyes. The room spreads its feelers along your arms, through the threads of cotton covers to your legs, thighs… belly and chest. As electricity flows through the copper wiring beneath drywall and purple paint, blood prickles beneath skin and fat. Carpet fibers sway, as do the fine baby hairs beneath a stranger’s cold breath. 

_ ‘Can you feel me… here, in this space you call your room?’ _

No, you want to say, but the weight of his static form weighs dense across your bones, as though the framework beneath the carpet extends senses to your skeleton. His oppressive presence barely moves—barely trembles—but to lean ever closer and ever deeper into your body. 

Your room warms against his chill.

Breathy shivers waft the loose hair against your cheek. Something slithers against the front of your throat, but if it’s his abstract appendages—whether tipped in suckers or fingers—on your body or the wall at his back, you’ll never know, because to open your eyes and see would mean there’d be nothing left to see. 

_ ‘I wonder if there’s a nerve inside here,’ _ and as the hiss of his voice ebbs into a rasp, broken fingers press down your sternum to hook and drag down the covers,  _ ‘Something that will feed me… like a spider suckling the poisoned juice from a helpless, little fly. Larvae without wings…’ _

Behind your eyelids, you see the serrated flesh between finger joints—a dissected midsection of carmine meat and white tendon. Blood cools and dots the cotton slipping down your hips and thighs and ankles where crumpled fabric slithers to the floor.

_ ‘I want to know how it feels,’  _ he howls softly against your chin—breath so frozen it’s more a kiss than a whisper,  _ ‘How the brush of naked skin feels. How skin against skin heats in a lathered sweat. Doesn’t it feel better now… doesn’t it feel good without the sheets? Naked air sliding against… skin?’ _

There’s a brief lull of heart-thudding silence—of darkness that your body swallows like an unhinged python.

_ ‘Answer me,’ _ comes the snarl. He begs no hesitation. 

You answer him without words. Feeling  _ ‘yes’ _ and hearing it despite the relaxed puff of your lips and tongue. 

He sighs, absorbing the answer like dry soil to the rain, soaking it up as long, crooked fingers play your thighs like a piano. 

_ ‘So many times I’ve wanted to ask you to feel me, but every time… I’ve been too shy. What if you say no? What if… you say yes?’ _

The walls pulse as a gentle shiver walks down your spine, penetrating the muscles in your abdomen as sharp nails worry lines up your thighs, stopping only when he reaches more cotton—more layers between skin upon skin. 

_ ‘Don’t hide from me…’ _

Stiff fingers that press against your underwear become slithering tendrils with the rise and fall of each breath. Empty eyes steer above you, watching as cool wisps of contact slip beneath soaked fabric where you’re hotter than most people know.

A broken sigh says more than any of his raspy whispering could ever describe because the sensations he finds between your thighs rolls into the room like a wave. Phantom tentacles—laden with thick bumps and ridges—stretch your walls both inside and out. Slow, meticulous thrusts stretch your body as the room around you stretches and contracts. Darkness breaths as he explores your reaches, panting hoarsely.

_ ‘Sometimes I reach to touch things… things I think will be soft and supple but, when I lay my hands down, I’m met with thorns… and pain,’ _ the word pain comes with a throng of it deep inside, heating a core more awake than you are,  _ ‘I don’t mind the pain. I even… like it.’ _

His scratch-mark silhouette shudders for a moment. As the outlines of the room distort and lean forward, so too does he—so too does his touch, slipping deeper, folding harder but no faster. Corkscrew curls fill you—stretched and knitted—before pulling back and plopping gently before thrusting inside again… and again…

_ ‘Often, it’s all I can feel. The pain is empty; it’s hollow. Maybe, the nothingness inside of me, is what makes me special… or maybe if I think about it,’ _ something wet unfurls, tracing the lines in your throat with licks that sound like trembling breaths,  _ ‘...maybe this makes me special.’ _

This is you. This is him. This is the both of you: one touching while the other suffers such touches. It’s not suffering if you enjoy it, though. If you never want it to end, then it can’t be wrong.

_ ‘What do you see? Tell me… open your eyes. I’m not shy anymore.’ _

No, you can’t. A tongue, or many tongues, lather your throat and collarbones in something sticky and cold. Every swipe and slow drag leaves a trail of tingling coolness that pulls at your nipples and the goose flesh dancing down your limbs. It makes the picture frame shrink and wobble—the bookcase contorts in mimicry of funhouse mirrors. His desire to be seen and the denial of it drives his touch wild. That slow, meticulous stroke turns rough. Tendrils become claws again: claws that shove your shirt over your chest, exposing heaving breasts that rise and fall in time with the ceiling fan above. 

Spider-like fingers coil around your throat, holding you in place; as if you can move—as if you want to move. Smooth, softly-bumped tentacles multiply, growing and filling and… fucking deeper. The weight of his form moves from the carpet where it takes your breath away to your bed, where it tightens your stomach and insides. Black ichor smothering you like his shadow melts into your flesh. 

Skin to… skin…

_ ‘You’ve given me so much tonight. Hands… eyes and a face. Last night you gave me different shapes. Ever-changing. But it’s not me. We know it’s not me,’ _ teeth scratch down, engulfing a breast that aches inside the frozen tundra of his mouth and the icicle lick of his tongue,  _ ‘I wonder what you’ll give me tomorrow night…’ _

His whisper wiggles inside your ear while his teeth masticate fat and nerves, bringing pain and delight by obsessive love and hate. 

_ ‘Open your eyes.’ _

As all the times before, your eyes snap open on the cusp of pleasure—the edge of release. 

A rotating ceiling fan stares down at you as the diluted cigarette burns fade from your memory. His image blurs, dims, and dies. With the shrouded view of your bedroom—colors popping despite being desaturated by night—comes the unwelcome fog of memory. Once more, he becomes a dream. A nightmare that makes you long for it to return.

Just once, you’d like it if he stayed a little longer. One time, it’d be nice if he shrugged off that cloak of shyness he loves clinging to. You’d like to touch him as he does you just once.

“Next time,” you whisper at the spot on the edge of the bed, still dented by his weight, “I won’t open my eyes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Big shoutout and thanks to Escher84 for beta reading this quick lil' smutty thing. Please, if you have the time, let me know what you thought. Thanks!
> 
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